


Beyond that bleeding sun

by Baryshnikov



Series: Where Monsters lie [7]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dreams vs. Reality, Insanity, M/M, POV Second Person, Sensual gore, Stream of Consciousness, Sunsets, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 13:49:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17081456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Harry is lying so peacefully beneath the bleeding sun, whilst you are standing in the dark, willing him to die in your arms.





	Beyond that bleeding sun

The bleeding sun is high, and the darkness is waiting. 

Harry looks gorgeous splayed across his bed, the red of the sun sliding through the glass, burning holes in his throat. You like him lying there so vulnerable, so fresh and young and untainted by the world. He has not yet learnt that there are monsters hiding even in the brightest and most beautiful places. The real world is a lie, it is not beautiful, it is burning. There is nothing but dust in the air and fake acrid smiles drawn across empty faces. Soon he will learn that all people are false, even you. In fact, you are the falsest of them all; a liar, and a deceiver, and a puppeteer playing with them all on silver strings. Though those strings are now stained so red with the sun. Still though, with so little effort, you can make him smile, you can make him laugh, you can make his heart beat twice-pace, you can make him breathless, you can make him believe that you are really there beside him, with your fingers on his neck. There are so many things you can make him do, and yet he still doesn’t understand. Perhaps he will never see the falsities that coat your words. Perhaps he will never see that you are the monster in his fairy tale, that you are the shadow he recoils from in his darkest dreams. You do not mind. His lack of appreciation for your troubles does not mean you are no longer a hero. You have always been a star, a paladin, a revolutionary, manipulating the world to meet your expectations, and now, for the first time, you are starting to see the fruits of your labour. He will be your motivator begging you to reach that blessed oblivion, and you will be the author of everyone’s fate writing out this new world in gold, whilst lying with him, fingers touching his neck, staring into nihility underneath the bleeding sun. 

He lies there with a red slash of sunlight split across his skin, streaks of crimson spilling down his throat and he looks so beautiful like an angel dipped in a thousand iniquities. He is yours, your cherubim with his eyes on fire. He opens them and looks where you stand, you know he can’t see you, not yet, soon though, soon he’ll see your form and fall in love with you, just as you have done with him. For now, though, you just admire his eyes: the sclera glazed with orange and the irises smouldering with hazed dreams concocted from the glow in the sky. For a second you almost believe he sees you, for there is such knowledge in his gaze, such an understanding. His eyes are so dark and filled with nasty things: a yearning to know what he shouldn’t, to see the things this world will always deny him, to be who you think he was born to be. But perhaps that is nothing more than your wishful thinking, nothing more than your dreaming of what you wish were true. One day. One day he will see you, and one day he will stare. One day he will admire you until his eyes are stinging, until his throat is dry, and his head is pounding until his lungs are burning up in the yellow smoke of a million surreptitious expectations. You open your own eyes and he is still lying there on his back, the lids of his eyes smoothed with gold. His chest rises and falls, rises and falls. He has not moved. You swallow and watch your golden boy lying asleep under a bleeding sun.

Even without the sun, there is always a red powder on his skin when he dreams of you. You like his blush, like that it only appears when he dreams of you. Those dreams are beautiful, not least because they contain you. They are reverent and respectful, and ever so careless. He thinks you do not see how his eyes wander in his dreams, you do, you always do. You see everything: the awe and admiration, the way he lauds and lionizes your words, his esteem for every inch of your skin despite never having seen your face. He does not know the visage you take, he does not know you are his perfect copy, the mirror image who is nothing like him but are made from the same precious things. The gold that runs through your veins runs also through his, everything he is, you are too. But he does not know that. He only knows of his careless dreams filled with their half-formed visions of your otherworldly perfection. Somewhere inside you know you should stop watching him, but you can’t help it. When he is asleep you can see the monsters in his thoughts, hear those dark delectable dreams he hides so poorly. You think how _everyone_ must know his every thought, given that he broadcasts them so well. But you also know you would be lost without those words ricocheting back and forth and back and forth through your brain, until time itself dissolves, and there is nothing left in the world but your aching eyes staring into the bleeding sun. 

The bleeding sun is setting, and the darkness is ready.

He is the burning seraphim you always dreamed of finding, the angel who would light your way into the dark. Though you know it is not his face which endears itself to you. You see that face every day before your eyes in the mirror. It is not his face. It is something behind his eyes. There is something so delectably deceitful by the way he stares, unblinking, almost as if he hopes you’ll notice his ophidian infection. You noticed it the second he wrote to you. You hope that a tiny part of him has already realised there is something different about him, a sickness that is brought to the surface when the sun shines scarlet on his skin. In this perfect moment, you cannot help but want to see what lies beneath his yellow shirt, beneath his orange skin, what lovely smoke dreams he hides inside his burning bones. You already know there is a sickness inside him, your sickness. The monsters that haunt your heart, haunt his too, he just doesn’t know it yet. You want to touch him, now that the sun has made the world a different place, a strange unfamiliar place bathed in gold but without value, streaked with red but without violence, decked in crimson but without glory. You wish he was really looking at you, that he was just as obsessed, that he would show you how much he appreciates you. Just the thought of him on his knees staring up at you, with his eyes so wide and filled with contagion, makes your stomach twist. You just want to kiss him, kiss him like a prince with poison on his lips. To kiss him and kill him simply because he is yours. He is your toy, your red syrup dream, your other-half burning bright under the bleeding sun. 

There is a small part of you that wants to own him completely. To show him that you are all he will ever need. Those are the voices that tell you to split open his neck, to prove that you own him, and you can do whatever you like with your possessions. Closing your eyes, you imagine sliding your fingers through his throat, how the vocal cords tremor when he whines his final breath. The hum that glides through your blood and sets your body abuzz with the anticipation of death. You can see your fingers slicked with his blood, hot and wet and red. The very essence of your puppet now ineffaceably blurred into you. You take a moment to look at the sun, so warm, and so proud, hanging as an angel before it falls into atrocity. When you look back at your hands, his blood is merely rust: cold and dry, just powdered rubies staining your fingers. You smile. He is forever ingrained in every indent, every crease of your knuckles, trapped under your nails, passed seamlessly onto everything you touch. He is everywhere around you. You want that so badly, want to push your fingers through his sun sullied skin. Push inside and wrap around his bones, feeling them crumble under your touch until there is nothing. Just an endless darkness, an expansive abyss where his viscera should be. You swallow, your throat is so dry as you scrape through an empty body to touch his blackened heart, so scorched by the very thing that set out to protect it. You want to hold it in your hands, watch it disintegrate, implode, and cause a supernova. Then there will truly be nothing in his chest but shadows, and _how_ you love shadows. He would be so willing by then, to let you play death, and he playing your victim. Producing such a gory, gracious, ghastly performance, his empty eyes always on yours, and your hands meshing together, and the cavities in your chests pulsing as one. In the red soaked room, your hands are shaking, and your head is against the wall, and he is asleep. You know then that if you wanted to, you could slice his pretty throat and watch the red fantasies of your id drip down, glowing in the bleeding sun.

He lies there with the red slash of sunlight slowly fading. Light’s tendrils are relinquishing their prey, unwinding themselves and leaving behind no marks that he will remember. They recoil, curling back behind the glass, clawing at the air. You have no need for light, and neither does he. The darkness has always been your friend, even in the endless cold silences it was there for you, and now, it will be there for him. The sun has set, and you are alone with your Harry. It is so quiet, so empty without the endless screaming sun, but you like the quiet. You like that you can hear nothing but his soft mortal breaths, it reminds you that he is still alive. The sudden coldness must have woken him because now his lids peel back. You are sure it is real this time, at least you hope it is real this time, desperately hope that he is awake and searching for something. His pale hands rub his pale face, and he sits up, the sheets crinkling under his weight. He looks out through the glass and sees the darkness that once again wraps the world like a gift. He turns, eyes scanning the room before settling. You know he sees something in the dark, you know because it is you, he stares at with his eyes too wide. You smile because now you know, he is finally awake, and he can finally see your figure in the dark. You don’t dare to move, don’t dare to breathe lest you frighten your Harry. For you are not here to frighten him, you are here to be his friend now that the bleeding sun has left him. 

The bleeding sun has set, and the darkness is reigning.


End file.
